Change of Pace
by Amethyst Soul
Summary: (Updated- Part III) The beliefs ingrained into your mind as a child are not always what you keep. People like Dib may learn to despise humanity. Likewise, people like Zim may learn to love it.
1. Lived

A/N: The break certainly has been lovely but it is nice to get back in the fanfic writing game. I hope you all missed me and if you didn't, well, I hope you'll miss my absence. June marked the one-year anniversary of my entrance into the Zim fanfic fandom. One year of people building their trust, their mistrust, their hatred, their judgments, their opinions, their likes, their dislikes, and their views of my writing and I.  
  
I'm hoping this fic changes all of that.  
  
And if it doesn't- it's a free country. Flames are as welcome as complements.  
  
I'd like to thank my two betas, Crimson Obsession and Opalescent Tear, for their constant dedication to our friendship. And I would also like to dedicate this fic to both of them.  
  
Change of Pace  
  
For Tif and Meg  
  
Part One- Lived  
  
/I asked myself "was I content" with the world that I once cherished,  
  
Did it bring me to this darkened place to contemplate my perfect future  
  
I will not stand nor utter words against this tide of hate  
  
Losing sight of what and who I was again I can see that you're losing me  
  
I always tried to keep myself tied to this world  
  
But I know where this is leading.../ -VNV Nation; 'Epicentre'  
  
What else can be said about the world that hasn't been said already? It's a place full of pain, full of torture. It is a place with pleasure, with joy. There is sorrow. There is hope. The world is not one thing; it is all things. No distinct black, and no distinct white. Always tinted, slightly tainted with the greys of inconsistency. And it is this inconsistency that acts as fuel for human beings to continue in the way that they do. Monotony is dull; change is thrilling. Humans seek that change. Feed on it. Breathe it. Fear it. Change makes us who and what we are.  
  
Without it, we are nothing.  
  
*  
  
Nothing is familiar anymore.  
  
That is the first thought I have as I step off the bus and look at my city, seven years in the future from when I had last stood here. The air is thicker; a darker shadow envelopes the expanse of alien ground. The people move about their busy, trivial lives with minds more set on their goals, as though they are trying to prove to themselves that their lives were worth anything. I stepped on a bus seven years ago hoping to become them. I step off glad as hell that I'm not.  
  
A small puddle sits on the filthy asphalt not too far from where I'm standing. I stare into it: my glasses are crooked on my nose; the scythe of black hair is tangled and messy; my trench coat is wrinkled and old. It occurs to me that I should clean up before going back home. But a distraction soon detains me.  
  
The distraction is in the form of a man; he shoves into me and keeps going without apologizing, as he seems to have some place to go so important that it justifies his rudeness. I calmly watch him as he hurries away into the safety of night, and then quietly follow.  
  
No one notices that he is gone.  
  
*  
  
Gone was the darkness of night, and I needed a place to rest. So far, the ground looked fine except I didn't trust the thunderclouds that neared in the distance. I hadn't slept in my own bed for seven years- hell, I'd barely slept- and suddenly I had an irrepressible urge to get home. But I couldn't, not now. I had to settle on an abandoned old car with rusted locks and one window. A smart move on my part, because the next morning was foggy, moist, and cold as hell. Some things about this city were just too stubborn to change.  
  
I started on my trek this morning. I don't know where anything will end anymore, and for once I don't care. How it ends doesn't matter. Neither does how it begins. It's how I get to the end that's important.  
  
I had wandered for five years. I left when I was 13, and five years later something died in me, and something was born. The death left behind seeds- seeds which my soul cultivated and grew. I became everything I'd ever hated as a child. But that was because as a child I was ignorant. That ignorance died, giving way for something else to take its place and live.  
  
I stayed away from home two more years, not wandering, but understanding. Understanding with the help of the growing seed of enmity. My childish self was a nursery for it; as my soul grew accustomed to life, so did the seed. It learned the way the real world acted. It grasped the meanings hidden behind dishonest words, and people who live on facades.  
  
Adults don't live behind facades. They live on them. They begin with a facade as a child, and hold it for so long that it becomes them- and then it is no longer a facade. It is a part of them.  
  
It took me a long time to understand that as a result of my displacement from humanity, I had to have no facade. I had to expose my true self, my intentions, my hatred, my fears- as dangerous as that may be- to keep myself from being human. If my ignorance did not die, it would have become my personal facade, and then my ignorance would have become me.  
  
I blink, and realize that I am finally back here. My old school, the place where the only learning came from outside the classroom, where I had to avoid bullies and devise plans to catch Zim. It's actually newer than I had last seen it; the school board must've actually taken time to fix things up. It must be snack time, because the kids are all out in the field playing their games. A little girl sits in a sandbox, playing around with the ants inside.  
  
This is youth. Excuses are made to protect these so-called innocent. The child I look at now, the little girl, is no different than the man that had shoved me aside earlier. It's just a matter of time before she realizes the powers of her cruelty. She has them. She will use them. She will become just like the rest of humanity.  
  
Some of the teachers gather and point at me. I suppose a six foot two man dressed in a dark leather trench coat who stares at schoolchildren must scare them, or at least cause enough panic for an intruder alert. I decide it's best I leave. No use in drawing unnecessary attention to myself.  
  
My anticipation can be withheld no longer. Cleaned up or not, I have to go home /now/. I near my street and try to suppress the excitement of seeing my family again. They would be so surprised to see me. And what I would do to them...  
  
I plan to show them exactly the kind of love and care that they showed me.  
  
When my house finally comes into view, I stop to stare. Memories electrify my nerves, causing me to shiver though I'm not cold. Memories I'd hoped were dead. I stagger, but catch myself. Such memories are dangerous.  
  
My house, a looming goliath, is broken down. The windows are bolted shut with pieces of wood. The shrubbery in front is overgrown and creates a sort of shield around the house as it continues to wildly climb upwards toward the sky. The door is off its hinges, but any space between it and the wall is also covered with wood. All of this could not have been recent.  
  
My hand touches the door. More memories floods into me. I bite my lip. I force myself to turn the knob. I close my eyes.  
  
Gaz. And Dad. Gaz. And Dad. Gaz.  
  
I find myself unable to near the house any longer. Instead, I turn and run away.  
  
_-=*=-_  
  
Zim sat lazily on the big old couch- the one he'd had ever since he arrived here on Earth. Now the thing was worn down, with more holes in it than could be counted. In fact, most of the room was the same, and had been for years. The only visible change was the replacement of the huge picture above the couch. Instead of a grinning, lime-green monkey with huge anime eyes, it was replaced with a map Gaz had made herself.  
  
It was huge, charting the entire world. It pinpointed every nation's leader's home, and where the government systems were set up. It revealed where secret underground agencies were located and where their entrances were. It revealed everything he needed to know to control the world.  
  
He used it once.  
  
And then he lost interest and never used it again. Now it was just a decoration; a token to remember the past, but no more than that. Since his rival's leaving he experienced pure joy. His time had come. He could continue with his mission without worrying about someone standing in the way.  
  
But his high eventually came crashing down. He no longer had a motive to control this place; and where would the joy be in what he could not gloat about? His leaders certainly didn't care whether he had taken over this place or not- he learned that long ago- and as long as he stayed here, they were happy.  
  
His perspective changed; his mission as well. It turned into a quest to figure out /why/ the Dib-human had wanted to protect a people of shameful ignorance and stupidity. And it took a few more years of studying more closely what Dib had seen in these people all along. He understood them at a different level. Their ineptitude was all anyone might see at first if they stood outside, looking in. But once he got beneath the minds of these people, into the layers instead of merely glancing at the surface, he saw something so much more complex; so different.  
  
These people weren't entirely worth obliterating. They had a mission, a passion of their own. Their diversity made them intriguing. And the more he studied, the more he liked.  
  
So that was why his map was now a wall decoration. Why he had changed his mission himself, and why he had begun to take a liking to human life.  
  
If anyone saw him now, they would mistake him for human.  
  
He sat on the couch with a half-eaten bag of chips to his right and an open philosophy book in his lap. His robot "dog" sat staring mindlessly into the mute television screen, counting the number of squares as its master had ordered. Somewhere in the middle of the screen it lost count and, not wanting to disappoint its master in his request, began to count the tiny squares again.  
  
The phone rang- a shrill scream in the comfortable silence- and Zim jumped, startled. Glad that no one was around to laugh at him, he picked up the phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Gaz's voice was on the other end. She didn't bother asking if he was there; she had known him long enough to recognize his voice.  
  
"I just created a new version of that computer game you've been obsessed with. You're welcome to come over tomorrow to beta-test it."  
  
Zim glanced at the clock. "You mean today?"  
  
There was a pause, and then a long yawn on the other end. "No, tomorrow. We have important things to do today."  
  
The last sentence didn't register in Zim's mind. He was too tired to ask her to repeat what she had said, anyway, and instead asked, "How did you know I wasn't asleep?"  
  
"Because of what today is."  
  
A long, unsettling silence ensued. Zim checked his watch to look at the date. "Shit."  
  
"You forgot?"  
  
"No, no... I just temporarily.. didn't remember," Zim mumbled.  
  
"You're a horrible liar when you're half asleep," Gaz said. "I can't believe you forgot, Zim. You're such a numbskull. You *are* coming, right?"  
  
Zim laid his head back, resting his eyes. No wonder he couldn't sleep tonight. Even consciously his troubled mind could realize what today was. "Yes, of course," he finally managed to whisper. "I can't believe I forgot. I /don't/ forget things."  
  
"Maybe you're a little too human," Gaz commented. He could tell she was smirking on the other side, and he shook his head, breaking out into a smile at the sheer irony himself.  
  
"But yes, I'll come. I wouldn't miss it for anything. I know how important it is to you."  
  
"It should be important to you, too. I'll be driving in at noon. Meet at your house per usual?"  
  
"Of course. Get some sleep, Gaz."  
  
"You too. Goodnight."  
  
Zim hung up and patted Gir's head. "Come on, Gir. It's time we rest. You know what today is."  
  
Gir stopped counting squares and leapt up into his master's arms. "YAY! It's national cupcake day!"  
  
"No... no, Gir. Today is the anniversary of Dib's disappearance."  
  
"That means we get to see Gaz-human!" Gir squealed. He jumped back out of Zim's arm and did a little dance to celebrate.  
  
"Yes. So you're going to let master sleep, right?"  
  
Gir's eyes briefly flashed rubicund and it saluted Zim. Then a tongue lolled out and it returned to the t.v. to count squares.  
  
On the way to his sleeping pod Zim passed by a picture that had been taken by Gaz. It was Dib, pouring over some Mysterious Mysteries magazines and holding one up about aliens. She had no idea why she'd taken that picture, but she'd given it to Zim upon his request.  
  
Zim sighed and pushed the picture down so that he didn't have to remember anymore.  
  
*  
  
"Any more requests?" Gaz asked as she nodded toward the radio. It was currently blaring some rugged, metallic sounding music that reminded Zim of the time Gir tried to form a band with the computer.  
  
Zim shrugged and ignored her. His sharp green fingers drummed on the dashboard as he scooted back in his seat to look out the front window and see where they were headed.  
  
"Zim, stop it. You're making /me/ nervous," Gaz sneered, her hands tightly clenching the wheel. Golden eyes swept over to his side for just a moment, and a brief expression of worry passed over Gaz's face. "Listen it's... been seven years. I know that."  
  
They had this conversation every year. Zim only half-listened, knowing exactly what she was going to say. That it's been a struggle.  
  
"I know it's been tough losing him... we've all struggled with accepting it."  
  
That no one was to blame.  
  
"It's not your fault. It's no one's. No one knew that Dib would do this- not even you. And you're probably the closest anyone has gotten to understanding him."  
  
That there was hope.  
  
"He's not dead. I know it. I can feel it. We'll find him someday."  
  
Zim grinned. "Wow, Gaz. Such compassion. Such emotion. I think that little bit deserves a Grammy."  
  
Gaz suddenly stepped on the gas and went tearing down the street, flinging Zim deep into his seat. She took her eyes entirely off the road to glare at him. "You know, Zim, just because you're an alien doesn't get you off the hook. I can kick your butt like I kick a human's any time."  
  
"Gaz... please... the road..." Zim managed to gag.  
  
She slammed on the break; Zim was flung forward, the dashboard slightly kissed his head, and velocity flung Zim backwards again. "We're here."  
  
"Human... I'm going to destroy you..." Zim said as he rubbed his disoriented head and grimaced.  
  
"You've been saying that for years. You'd think one would get a clue by now," Gaz said as she unhooked her seatbelt and grabbed her backpack.  
  
"Clue? Heh, heh, heh... the almighty Zim needs no clue..." Zim warily unhooked his seatbelt; he glanced to make sure that the car was off and to confirm that he would not be in any mortal danger if he took away his only safety tool. "Maybe a lifeline, but not a clue."  
  
The mood was light inside the car. But once the two stepped outside, the air was suddenly humid with gravity. Zim stopped smiling and turned to glance up at the house. The Membrane family moved out of it about a year after Dib's disappearance. And no one had yet dared to move in. The house had grown cold, and lonely, and dead.  
  
Zim took a sideways glance at Gaz. Unconsciously she bit her lower lip.  
  
Taking in a deep breath, Gaz moved up the steps. There were no words for moments like this.  
  
She used to come here alone. Grieve, entirely alone. Her father never could get over the incident, and had a habit of running away from his problems. Perhaps he and Dib were too much alike. Nevertheless, once Gaz was old enough to go to college Membrane took off to Russia to work on a top secret aerospace project. He sent her letters every random once in awhile when he felt like it, and though it was filled with science mumbo jumbo that made no sense to her, it was still nice that he cared enough to write to her.  
  
And then it happened maybe the fifth time she had come. Zim was here too. She didn't know why. She didn't know he was even still alive, not after he'd disappeared not too long that Dib himself had gone. But they stood here, quietly, unspeaking. They gazed at the house where once an unnatural family had lived. Where once a boy- paranoid, maybe even a little crazy- had spent his life. Save a few pictures, it was all they had to remember him by.  
  
After this she and Zim had gone back to her apartment and a friendship grew. Gaz eventually had to go back to college; Zim had college of his own. They separated, but kept in touch via Internet and phone calls. And ever since then they'd vowed to meet back here once a year, to remember. Because all that mattered were the memories.  
  
Gaz turned to see that Zim was walking back towards the truck. Was it time to go? Already? But she'd barely gotten a chance to...  
  
There was a small creaking sound, barely audible. Gaz glanced up to see the door slightly ajar, being pushed back and forth by an incoming wind. Eyes could peer from the outside in, unseen by the world on the out. The thought of such sent her shaking. Her small steps, timid and light, approached the door.  
  
"Gaz?"  
  
She ignored Zim and grabbed the door handle, forcing it opened even wider. Unable to restrain herself, she glanced inside.  
  
It was dark in the poor lighting. Dust thrived like weeds, and a few old pieces of furniture that they had left behind were still there, abandoned and forlorn. She shook her head, realizing that the door must have opened itself in its years of neglect and warping. After making sure it was shut closed, she stomped back off to her pickup. "Let's go."  
  
Zim stared back at the house as Gaz drove away. It disappeared in view, but the odd feeling he received from the house lingered like a candle's fragrance hours after the candle has burnt out. Unused to these sort of emotions, he ignored the feeling and gazed down the road as Gaz chased the falling sun.  
  
_-=*=-_ 


	2. A Smile in the Light

Change of Pace  
  
For Tif and Meg  
  
Part Two- A Smile in the Light  
  
/When I have nothing left to feel.  
  
When I have nothing left to say  
  
I'll just let this slip away.  
  
I feel these engines power down.  
  
I feel this heart begin to bleed  
  
As I turn this burning page.  
  
I have words I need to say. / -VNV Nation, "Forsaken"  
  
  
  
/Don't give them a chance to beg,/ he whispers into my ear. /Don't give them a chance to breathe a word of their pain into your ear. Sympathy will kill you./  
  
Sympathy will destroy my objective.  
  
/Yes. And the objective?/  
  
To rid the human race of its misery. To destroy all that is dark- all that is undeserving of an existence.  
  
/You're saving them from themselves./  
  
I'm saving them from themselves. They have no reason to live anymore. I'm liberating them from the chains they create from their own waste, their hatred, their hypocrisy, their own impurity.  
  
/Your hatred-/  
  
Comes from experience.  
  
/Your focus-/  
  
From years of pain.  
  
/Your source-/  
  
.../they/ did this to me.  
  
He pauses for a moment, and then smiles. His arm, draped with a black cloak, sweeps over me. I close my eyes. They made me this way. It is time that they suffer for it.  
  
"SHIT!" I heave my sweaty chest upwards, and breathe deeply. I shouldn't let myself fall asleep like that. A dream of a nightmare- an experience I would never enjoy the pleasure of forgetting.  
  
I did not know who the hell was in that dream with me. Whoever he was, he'd been haunting me ever since that night...  
  
That night I'd rather not think about.  
  
I throw off my cloak- used briefly as a blanket- and sit up. I am in the car again; after running away from the house I realize that I need one more night to contemplate. To plan. Matters are drastically changed. I have to compensate, and-  
  
"Do you think that they can survive?"  
  
I jerk my head around. "Who said that?!" My ear tingles, as if moist lips had briefly breathed into it. My heart slows down and my breathing returns to normal. This is what I get for letting my fatigue get the best of me.  
  
Outside, an alley cat makes noise that shatters the silence so roughly one might think it would bring seven years bad luck. All is quiet after a moment; the ephemeral noise leaves behind an unsettling silence, as though the world were listening to my every move, every thought in my mind.  
  
"Silence will drive you-"  
  
I jerk back awake as my heart races again. The voice- not my own- was this time accompanied by a fleeting feeling of rough hands against my shoulders. The voice- a whisper- is of the only nightmares that I cannot kill.  
  
"Please... please, go away... I don't have what you want..." I whisper under my breath. He and I both know it is a lie, but I bite my lip and hope the voice will leave. I am half inclined to rip out my ears and claw at my brain, but I only clench my fists and concentrate on other things. After awhile I decide it is safe to relax. My chest feels tight; I decide to get a fresh breath of air.  
  
I step out of the car and stare up at the sky. It beckons me to come, but it knows it must wait patiently, as I have for all these years. The darkness is a home to me, and I stand staring towards the effervescence of dancing white flames until dawn rudely intrudes.  
  
If Gaz and Dad have gone, then there is one more person I must see before I leave. I yawn, and then make my way back into the car. Ever since I came back to this city I have been more tired than usual; gotten more sleep than I ever had in a week. But I remember the chilling words that had escaped my dreams and haunted my reality earlier. I grab a pair of headphones, turn my CD- the only one I own- on repeat, and shut my eyes, letting the calm words shield me from the voices that haunt me.  
  
It is morning. I am awake- and it is a relief. In the light, I have nothing to fear. I kept myself awake all night, listening, waiting for the voices to return. They never did.  
  
It quickly occurs to me that I am not alone. A young man stands outside of the car, gazing at me curiously, with this large smile that turns his entire complexion into a mold of wrinkles.  
  
"You okay, son?" his prying face shoves through the open window of the car and gazes at me with sympathy.  
  
"Yes..." I grumble, and sit up, disliking the idea of being called 'son'. I am nobody's son.  
  
"You look like you need some help. Can I get you anything?" He finally backs away from the car window, which was to probably a good move on his part considering I had the distinct advantage with his head so vulnerably close to me like that. At first I don't answer, hoping he'll get bored and go away, possibly, but the man is persistent. He opens the car door.  
  
"I do not need help," I manage to say, but I am curious so I scoot over to the open car door and get out. "And you cannot help me with anything that I cannot help myself with."  
  
His eyes are so... warm. The kind you see in the magazines; the smiling, inviting people who the photographers want you to think are friendly. It's so utterly fake. I watch the man's hands closely, realizing that his congenial smile temporarily had caught me off guard.  
  
It occurs to me that he has asked me yet another inept question while I'd concentrated on watching his physical moves rather than listening to them. I glance up at him. "What?"  
  
He doesn't repeat himself. Simply pats my head and shoves a twenty into my hand. "Don't go putting that into an liquor, kid. Get yourself some food. And maybe job. People like you don't belong in the streets."  
  
My cheeks flush red and I stand, angrily. He thinks I'm some homeless bum, some alcohol addict, too dumb for college and too lazy for a job? How /dare/ he?! I crumple the twenty in my hands and consider stuffing it into that uprighteous face of his, but I realize that he's already turned and left.  
  
My hand slowly releases its hot metal-white grip. I stare at his back as he walks off to wherever he came from, confused. But I don't worry about it too much. I shrug, figure he was in a good mood- or really wanted to waste twenty bucks- and head off toward the Seven-One-One to eat something.  
  
*  
  
Something isn't right. The place I'm in is too quiet. People are too... curious. The minute I stepped in to the Seven-One-One everyone stopped to stare. I'm used to this kind of attention, enduring stares at my different attire that people are too self-absorbed to accept. But I'm not used to this amount of attention- usually it is one or two fools who cannot continue with their daily lives without staring me down- not the entire store.  
  
I shrug it off and walk over to grab a bottle of water. The eyes of the customers watch closely every move I make, like a paranoid mall cop watches every security camera screen. I ignore them; they can swim in their own tainted impurity. And there are too many anyway to dispose of them all in one graceful, sweeping motion.  
  
That's too bad.  
  
I throw the twenty down at the cash register and wait for the man sitting behind it to ring me up. He smells like wisps of smoke locked in beads of sweat, and I'm sure if he weren't used to his own smell by now he would quickly get used to the meaning of the word "shower". He does not look at me, only hands me back my change; I cautiously grab the money from him so that he does not touch me.  
  
On my wait out, the small fan group that had gathered to stare at me when I first walked in begins to whisper:  
  
"See that boy? I think that's the Membrane kid."  
  
"No kiddin'? Impossible. He's been missing for years."  
  
"He looks like he's not quite "here" now."  
  
I smirk and am about to make my way out of the store, when another voice joins in.  
  
"You know that sister of his? I heard she's back from that school over on the coast- Bezerkley or somethin. They're probably gonna meet."  
  
"You know her?"  
  
"Kinda. You can't really /know/ a kid like Gaz Membrane."  
  
My pause at the door causes them to pause in their speech. But I have heard all that I need to hear for now. I leave them to their whispers and shut the door.  
  
I sit on the curb in front of Seven-One-One, drinking my water and watching cars blur past- all over the speed limit- as their drivers rush to get to work for another efficient day of signing papers and feeding paper shredders. The water tastes like nothing. That is why I like it. It's nothing, just a liquid that you feel slide the back of your throat, just something that makes your body feel satisfied. People do not know they really need- or deserve- water until they beg for it. Until it kills them not to have it- and even then, the water kills them by keeping them alive.  
  
The jingle of the customer bell in the Seven-One-One draws my attention away from the water. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone rushing off to the side. It was the same woman in the store that had spoken earlier about Gaz. She has her friend with her, but my eyes darken the entire world around everything except the one I want.  
  
I stand and quickly follow her. Here, my job is more difficult. The light shows everything that I do not want to be shown; it reveals everything brazenly as though it were not ashamed of the impurities that it uncovers. I smile and wait until that one moment, that one, perfect moment when the sun cowers behind the clouds and the world within the one-way street that I'm on has gone completely silent.  
  
I disturb it all with one hand movement into her back.  
  
*  
  
Back.  
  
Back here.  
  
Back at this entity.  
  
Back at this place that I have avoided for so long.  
  
Back at this hell which I cannot help but love and hate.  
  
Back at this reminder that I am a bump on the smooth hands of life.  
  
Back, knowing that to turn away would be poor courtesy.  
  
Back to connect the dots; complete the picture.  
  
Back to the point of innocence.  
  
Back in my first ignorance.  
  
Back?  
  
Back is not this.  
  
Back feels like home.  
  
Back feels like knowing all is right.  
  
Back is losing that alarm inside of you; finding peace.  
  
Back feels like you're collapsing back into the arms of familiarity.  
  
Back feels like returning from a long period of being lost.  
  
Back is reaching the end of a circle, and starting again.  
  
Back is finding a way to start anew the same cycle.  
  
Back cannot be when you've found a new way.  
  
Back is not starting a new cycle.  
  
Back doesn't feel like this.  
  
Back is not this.  
  
Back can't be this, because this before me is what fuels my anger.  
  
... And I will pay her back dearly.  
  
_-=*=-_  
  
"Can you tell me again?"  
  
Zim sighed and shut the book he was reading on the human theory of relativity. He was lying sideways on the couch with his legs draped over the arm; Gaz's request forced him up from his place of placidity. He glanced at her: she was cross-legged on the floor, glaring suspiciously around her as G.I.R. played a one-sided game of hide-n-seek with her. She stopped and took another glance at Zim. "Please?"  
  
"I told you it already."  
  
She continued, persistently, jokingly, "Yeah, but that was a year ago. My poor human brain can't handle so much information in a given time."  
  
Zim wasn't listening to her. He glanced upwards thoughtfully as something caught his eye, "And I told you the year before that too. And the year before that. And even-"  
  
"The year before that," she interrupted. "Yes, yes, I know, but I just like the story. It's very..."  
  
"CUTE!" G.I.R. screamed as he leapt down from one of the circuit wires on the ceiling. He saw Gaz and dashed off into the closet where the now-deactivated robot parents' remains were.  
  
Gaz twitched and thumbed a finger through her hair. "That... wasn't exactly the word I was looking for but it works."  
  
Zim cocked an eyebrow. "You think the story is cute?" That word was almost nonexistent in her dictionary.  
  
She grinned, knowing that it annoyed him. "/Very/ cute."  
  
"If you promise to never, ever use that word again, then I suppose I can comply with your request."  
  
"Fine," she pouted, though she still had that mischievous glint in her eye, "But only because the story is so... /adorable/."  
  
Zim shuddered and stood up. He liked pacing when he got into elongated stories or explanations; it helped him concentrate, and sitting down was too still and formal for his taste. "Well... it wasn't actually an overnight thing. It took me enough courage to even admit it to myself. And even then I didn't believe it..."  
  
*  
  
"...It has been bugging me lately..." Zim sneered to the screen. Displayed was Almighty Tallest Purple, who was indiscreetly glancing over his shoulder.  
  
"Listen, Zim, I know it's been awhile since you've seen that human. But isn't time for that little obsession of yours to be over and done with?" Purple laughed haughtily. "I mean, he's just a human."  
  
"Yes! And oh how he bugged me..." Zim's red eyes glowered like two alarm lights sharply contrasted against the darkness. "He still does. His absence bothers me even /more/."  
  
"And what would the point of his presence be?" Purple persisted. "Why does it even matter?"  
  
"You're supposed to be helping me," Zim sneered.  
  
"I /am/ helping you!" Purple's voice rose, but he cringed and spoke more softly, "Zim, you have to stop this. You can't be disillusioned by Dib's leaving-"  
  
"It wasn't just that!" Zim didn't care if his voice rose or not- he didn't much care for anything at that point. "I haven't given up the fight. I still have a motive, I still have a purpose in my life!" He paused and whispered, mostly to himself, "I cannot believe he did that to me."  
  
"Are we still talking about Dib?"  
  
Zim sighed. "No. No, we aren't. We're talking about that deceiving, inept basta-"  
  
"Zim..." Purple growled a warning.  
  
Zim stopped. He lowered his head, ashamed that he had spoken so rudely to his superior; ashamed that he had insulted him as well. "I apologize, my Tallest."  
  
"You know that decision was made mutually," Purple spoke slowly. His voice was calm because he knew how to handle his anger and his own guilt.  
  
"But at least you did not pretend that I never existed. That hurts more than banishing me to Earth."  
  
Purple sighed sympathetically. "You know Red. He's just... different. He likes to make a decision and forget he ever made it. That helps him do what's best for his people." It was difficult for Purple to defend two people on the opposite sides at the same time. Unlike Red, he could not simply forget that Zim had never existed, even when they did finally manage to permanently keep him away from Irk. Zim and he had grown up in the Invader's Academy together; even if Zim was a pompous, reckless, poor excuse for an Invader, he was still... Zim.  
  
That, and there was the discreet, almost unconscious knowledge that if they had fully betrayed Zim, he would most certainly be persistent in betraying them back. It would be unwise to leave him on a planet full of resources, access to Irken technology, and the firm belief that he had been left behind to die. Zim's persistence, and even more dangerous, his stupidity, might cause him to come back with an enmity that could cause great damage. And neither Purple, nor Red, wanted that.  
  
Purple glanced behind his shoulder once again to check if any guard might be happening to pass by. Outside of himself, only Red knew he still communicated with Zim. If their loyal subjects knew, they would probably be critical of the situation- and may even guess the Tallests' fear of the little un-invader.  
  
Zim tapped the computer console contemplatively. "Yes, well, I need to leave. I'm going to give the planet another DNA sweep-"  
  
"Zim, that's the third time this month. The humans will be suspicious if you cause too many rolling blackouts from interference by that technology."  
  
"But it is imperative that I find Dib! I have to make him believe that I am still a threat to Earth. I have to put things back together again."  
  
"Zim," Purple said calmly, his voice lowering to a soothing tone. "That simply isn't... possible. Even if you rebuild a fallen tower, it can never be quite the same again."  
  
Zim lowered his eyes. "Then what do you expect me to do?" he asked through clenched, jagged teeth.  
  
Purple paused, and then smiled that placid, mysterious smile of his. "You've got to rebuild it better than it was before."  
  
Three years.  
  
Three years passed and Purple's words still echoed through Zim's mind. Three years and the Membrane boy still hadn't been found. Even though Zim hadn't given up searching, he'd given up hoping. The use of the continuous methods of tracking the human were only ways of keeping himself occupied; of keeping the reality of never seeing his personal obsession again a surreality.  
  
He was right now positioned underneath his laboratory. He never really left the city at all- he never even left his house. But he wanted to give the impression that he had gone as well. And so he locked himself up inside the dark, the metal, the cold- it matched his emotions, and within that, he felt its comforts.  
  
Over the years he planned foolish ways of destroying the Earth that he knew he would never execute. He half-heartedly tracked the Dib-human. He watched the news to see how the world was evolving without his careful eye to make sure it didn't evolve too much.  
  
That wasn't difficult.  
  
As a joke he summed up the news over the past three years on a little chart he had made. Every day he stared at it, hoping that there would be some change, some difference:  
  
2014. The terrorist war ended. Death, nevertheless. Crime. Scandals. More death.  
  
2015. Basic shuttle space travel. Death. Crime. Scandals. More death.  
  
2016. Atomic weaponry scare. Death. Crime. Scandals. A chart warning society that the death rate increase would soon tower over the life rate.  
  
It was almost funny. Humans focused on the 'now' and ignored the 'to be', continuously making their mistakes until 'to be' became 'now' and they had to focus on the crisis at hand. The crisis would be overcome. They would return to their daily lives. And then they would focus on the 'now' again, quickly forgetting that the 'to be' was just as imperative, if not more so.  
  
Human flaws were all that the media displayed on television. This didn't make sense to Zim. Why not reveal humanity's successes? Why revel in how many times humanity has failed; how individual units of society have blackened the Earth rather than wallowing in the pride of when individuals break from that monotonous wrongdoing and change Earth for the better?  
  
For the longest time, Zim was fooled into believing that there *were* no humans working for the good of society.  
  
Not that he cared.  
  
Boredom was the ulterior motive for even tracking the humans in the first place. Boredom was the "ultimate" reason behind his "ultimate" plans. Boredom was there when he woke up each morning, was there when he injected his daily nutrient diet, was watching when he sauntered off through his lab, was everywhere like a final, cruel joke- a reminder to him that Dib had finally, unknowingly, unpurposely won.  
  
"What do you think?" Zim was saying to the blank-faced robot before him. "Am I a "Gir dogsuit" green or more of a "ginger" shade?" He paused, waiting for the voiceless answer, and sighed. "Yeah..." he pulled his arm away from the only light in the lab. "I'm a "Gir dogsuit" green if anything else."  
  
He patted the robot's head, remembering and despising how much joy it brought into his life. The robot slumped over, its blank eyes staring towards the ground, a smiling frown giving the entire face a lonely sort of complexion.  
  
At that moment, Zim's internal clock- adjusted for Earth time configurations- indicated that it was six o'clock. Televisions and projection display screens throughout the lab activated and illuminated the darkness with a calm blue glow. A voice followed, ringing through the empty spaces of the bare room:  
  
"Good evening America, this is Channel Six reporter Van Nygen, reporting live from TCB studios," the Asian reporter greeted, smiling. "Today on Channel Six news at Six: Star Wars, Episode Nine- is the world's most successful sci-fi story finally coming to an end? Carbon Monoxide, and why it may cause a problem for your fish. Also, an exclusive interview with Professor Membrane, live from Russia. What does the world's greatest scientist have in store next for humanity?"  
  
Membrane. He'd been hearing that name far too often, now. Membrane did this. Membrane did that. Membrane invented this. Membrane found a cure to that.  
  
It was too much of the wrong Membrane.  
  
"So, Gir, what's the consensus? Should I stay or see what Timothy McDorough is talking about on Channel 10?" Zim asked the inanimate metal. He sighed and the t.v. controller dropped to his side. "Yeah... I never liked that Tim human anyway."  
  
The interview of Professor Membrane was the first news report, mostly on the count of that, considering it was live, Membrane didn't have much time to wait for the other reports to finish. It was an overall dull report to Zim- there was some continuous food reproduction device he was working on- and he almost fell asleep just listening to it.  
  
"Well," Membrane said with the same tone of voice as one might use when preparing to say 'goodbye' to someone, "It's time for me to go. The Food Reproduction Device still replicates carbohydrates, and I need it replicating proteins by 10 a.m. tomorrow."  
  
"One more question, Membrane," the reporter persisted, shoving the microphone so far into his face that he had little choice as to which direction he could move freely, "Why is it that you continuously create these objects of mass construction? Aren't you tired of caring so much about humanity?"  
  
Membrane rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's a good question. I suppose I never tired of humanity- probably because you people amuse me so. Now, I really must go."  
  
Zim shut the television off, not interested in hearing about suffocating house pets or the final end to the sci fi that wouldn't die. He cocked his head and slowly glanced around the room of his lab.  
  
"That *is* a good question..." he murmured to no one in particular but himself. 'Well, Dib? Why *did* you care so much about humanity...?"  
  
And suddenly, boredom transformed into obsession once again.  
  
_-=*=-_  
  
A/N: Well, if you're reading this that means you made it through Part II! Yay! Once again I'd like to thank my wonderful betas, Crimson Obsession and Opalescent Tear, for smiting those evil typos and grammar errors with their smiting... sword... thingies.  
  
And thank YOU all for reviewing!  
  
Nondescript, you're so very sweet :) But alas, there are people out there who are better than me. If you're ever looking for some good ficcage, check out anything from my two betas or Zara the Pirate's fic, "Final Solution".  
  
Zara the Pirate (and Scat and Chey! ^_^ wh00!) I'm so glad to rope you in! ::rubs hands mischievously:: Welcome to my legion...  
  
HopelessParanoidRomantic (which I am both, by the way) I will definitely write more! I think I have one, maybe two more parts to go. Not sure yet!  
  
Calico, thanks ^_^ I lurves da emotion. I lurves it good.  
  
Banana Co.- LOL! You're so very convincing! ::gasp:: You were a flamer in your past life, weren't you?  
  
Miss Eliz, once again, I thank you for defending me ^_^ Hehe. You must forgive my friend, she can be a little... eccentric. And she needs to learn to spell regardless if she was faking the flame or not ;) But I hope you enjoyed it, and I completely agree- "Conquer Me" is a great fic.  
  
Topaz! Yo?! Wazzup mah homie-g? Fancy meetin' you here ^.~ That ZADR snippet WAS going to be a part of this fic but that's exactly the way this fic *didn't* go. So no, no romancey stuff. But I promise you that snippet will surface again somewhere... another place... in another fic... o_O  
  
::glomp hugs Crimson Obsession back:: (if someone gave me a nickel for every time we did this, I'd be rich! Filthy rich! Then I could have my OWN Fanfiction.net! Mwahahah!) Anyway, I always love your reviews- they always brighten my day.  
  
Idgiebay- hehe... you're so cute when you're angry. Thank you so much for your review! I admire you more :P If anyone wants to see some awesome, stunning art, Idgiebay's your gal.  
  
Until Part III! 


	3. Because I Love You Part I

A/N: I know it's been awhile. I'm sorry for that ^_^ I've kinda cheated you guys, too, because this is only the first half of Part Three. But this is an extremely important chapter, so I've decided to sever it from the full thing (that, and this is an excuse to buy time for break through the huge creative block I've hit). Special thinks to Greenways Trajectory (aka Wreckstep, aka Banana Co., aka that Trigun chick) for checking this over while my two betas were busy. Please R&R, and e-mail me if you've got any questions/comments/criticisms- I'll post them all in Part Three (Part II) (eesh.. that's confusing .O')  
  
  
  
Part Three (Part I)- Because I Love You...  
  
/...But I know where this is leading  
  
(please)  
  
No tears, no sympathy  
  
Gracefully  
  
Respectfully  
  
I ask you "please don't worry"- not for me  
  
Don't turn your back  
  
Don't turn away./  
  
-VNV Nation, "Epicenter"  
  
  
  
Ever think how red is the color that encompasses anger and love, pain and exhilaration, alarm and embarrassment? There's the cliché phrase "seeing red", and the flash of red as a character dies on-screen to represent their torrential blood. When someone is excited, their cheeks flush red, as when they have been publicly humiliated. Fire trucks, police car lights, and many warning alarms are all red. And then comes love. The red you see in roses and on hearts and is impossible to miss on Valentine's Day; the red that fills people's souls with that uplifting, wonderful, ephemeral feeling of true contentment; the gooey, oozing, sappy sort of red on cheap teddy bears and shiny stickers. No one connects love red to the bloody corpse on the floor. No one connects love red to the anger flashing over ones eyes; the alarm of a nuclear crisis; the feeling you get when you rip your pants in front of your class during an impromptu speech. Everything else fits together- everything else is so negative, so harmful to human health- except for love.  
  
So why, then, do we associate love with red along with the rest of those emotions?  
  
*  
  
Emotions are what I don't need right now; what I can't suppress. But I accept them because I'm human and it's all I can do. I despise those people that truly believe that they can blame their emotions on everything: "I'm blinded by my love..."; "I couldn't control my anger..."; "Sadness overwhelms me..."; "This pain that I feel is unbearable..."  
  
Bull.  
  
People fail to realize that it's not their emotions- it's themselves- that control their actions. They blame love for their own ineptitude; likewise, they blame their anger for making themselves abuse someone; their sadness for depressing them; their pain for causing their inner fabrics to be slowly unwoven and frayed. It's not the emotion that makes them do anything- it's their thought. And thought and emotions are two entirely different matters.  
  
We control our own emotions- to say that they control us is merely to throw the blame to the fact that it is human nature to feel, instead of that it is our personal human nature that caused a specific action to occur. So, it isn't the anger that drives you to strike her- it is the momentary thought that crossed your mind, making you believe that violence was the only way to make her shut up. Because even after you hit her, the anger is still there- hitting her didn't vent the blinding rage you felt. It isn't the love that blinded you- it is your ignorance and the foolish excuses you made in your mind when your significant other was suspected of doing some sinful act. It isn't the sadness that forced you to take the knife to the skin-covered vein- it is the inner belief that your presence is negligible, and irrationally believing in some outside influence that told you suicide is the miracle cure that would solve everything.  
  
Emotions are merely means of expressing our thoughts and fears, and nothing more. They do not control us- we control them. And so blaming them gets us but an excuse for our actions, when our actions are all our own; they reflect who we are.  
  
I take full responsibility for my actions. I don't let them depress me because I know that it is my own train of thought in the first place that leads me to act. Why mourn what I am; why resent the reflection of my true nature; why regret what I have learned from?  
  
I may be the way I am because of certain actions, certain events, certain people, but I am responsible for be allowing myself to become so. I allow myself to be affected by those fact-  
  
"You think far too much."  
  
"What?" I blink and stare towards where the voice came from, my train of thought ruined.  
  
"You've been mumbling to yourself so loudly that I couldn't help but overhear," says the man that has intruded into my one-sided conversation. He looks old; a frayed, yarn-textured beard juts out in the darkness of nighttime. Other than that and the golden-orange reflection of a nearby streetlamp in his ancient eyes, I cannot see more than the bare outline of his shape.  
  
"Then you can help yourself to leaving me alone," I sneer back at him. "Or I may have do deal with this intrusion personally." I can see his shadow colored face: the dimmest outline of a smile forms. He takes my threat as a joke.  
  
"Listen, boy... it seems like you've been doing too much thinking and not enough comprehending. What was that you were saying earlier? 'Emotions are merely means of expressing our thoughts and fears, and nothing more'? What sort of childhood traumatizing experience dragged that thought from your mind?"  
  
I don't answer, not seriously listening to or considering his words from the beginning. Deciding by the smell and location of a small brown box off to the corner that he was merely a lonely homeless man with little impact on my main cause, I find it easier to vaguely listen in hopes to quietly sneak away.  
  
"You crazy young fools never like the sound of anyone's voices but your own," he mutters. "I think it's time you sucked in some of that defective arrogance of yours and woke up."  
  
"Tuh. I've awoken, old man. I'm not so sure /you/ have."  
  
The man laughs quietly. "Oh, no. That's where you're wrong. You haven't woken up at all. If anything, your eyes are closed as tightly as ever and all your 'realizations' are merely products of dreamlike thoughts and nightmares twisted together into one deformed mess you've made of yourself."  
  
I cock an eyebrow. At least he's an interesting lonely homeless man- intriguing enough to toy around with, anyhow. I decided to entertain myself and continue the conversation; it is still early and I have plenty of time to continue alone my destined path for the night. "You seem to assume a lot from a 'crazy young fool' you've just met."  
  
If it is by some trick of the eye or a change in the lamplight, the man's eyes seem to glitter more brightly and focus sharply on my own. "I don't assume. I watch. And there's a lot that I've seen you do, boy."  
  
I grit my teeth and am about to speak but he interrupts-  
  
"Yes, you /are/ still a boy. You've got the ability to pick up the puzzle pieces and put them together but you can't fully grasp the abstruse shape they form no matter how long you think about and assess them- the mentality of any child."  
  
I'm in awe at the audacity he has to call me such- obviously if he has "watched" me as much as he says he has, then he should know what I'm capable of as well. But instead of catching my shocked glare, he continues:  
  
"You think you can 'see' better than me?" he taunts. There's something in his voice that calls me to pay attention; that catches me off guard- but I can't place it. He points to another place off in the distance: there, underneath the dim glow of another lamplight, is the sandbox where I'd seen the little girl the day before. "You claimed that little girl over there was cruel; a cruelty that was no different from the man who cares only for his own well being- am I correct?"  
  
For some reason, it does not alarm me that he knows all this. I nod. "Yes."  
  
"You're right, of course. The girl possesses a cruelty as any adult does and has an equal opportunity to use them." I grumble for him to get on with the point and the man continues: "Well, then, does her level of cruelty equate with her level of kindness? Does she not also possess the moral sympathies and senses of common courtesy as any other adult as well?"  
  
I almost laugh in his face. "Kindness? Moral sympathies? Courtesy? They are inexistent in this society with the gracious connotations you've put them under.  
  
"Courtesy is the arrogant interest of presenting yourself to society in such a way that they respect you. It doesn't matter who you're courteous to- it matters who's watching.  
  
"Moral sympathies, when they- in their rarity- do arise in the human spirit, are only cared about when there's a serious problem, usually affecting humans in some way. It's taken skin cancer for people to care about the ozone layer; extinction, for animals; poverty, for human society. People don't care about certain problems until matters are beyond saving.  
  
"Kindness, like courtesy, is another word for "benefit". A kind act is merely done for one's own advancement- whether to make one feel better about oneself or to obtain a higher position in society. These are all simple words- attempts to decorate the human soul with poisoned confetti."  
  
"Hmmm..." he muses, annoyingly offering no distinct 'yes' or 'no'. "So the man that gave you the twenty, earlier- that was to his own benefit?"  
  
"I'm sure his restless moral soul could not stand seeing a "child" in such a state," I growl the sarcasm. "That man was nothing but a farce."  
  
"You're so sure of yourself."  
  
"So?"  
  
"It's quite amusing."  
  
"Get on with the point, old man. I haven't the time for this."  
  
"You have plenty of time," he smirks, and continues on, "I find it ironic that you focus so much on society's failures when you seem to look at none of your own. The little girl in the sandbox: cruel? Yes. But kind? Yes. She possesses the same human qualities as any other human and she cannot change that. It is what she does with her 'powers'- as you have called them- that makes the difference between someone moral," he glances at the sandbox; the lamplight pops and suddenly the spot becomes enveloped in the same cloak of night that he was in, "and someone cruel."  
  
"I have my failures," I object. "I know that I am human as well and I cannot change that. I am merely a funnel to the broader state of human mind- knowing, realizing, understanding the faulty of the human soul and possessing the power to destroy the defect."  
  
"The defect?" he scoffs. "There is no defect in being human. The defect lies in everyone interpreting their human nature in their own way. An endless number of souls all struggling to understand themselves and their world without ever realizing that that's exactly the answer to their questions."  
  
"I... am afraid I do not understand," I say, and am not ashamed of the fact- he's only a lonely homeless man with far too much time on his hands to think about what he has to say.  
  
"Yes," he nods, and I wonder if he even heard me, "That's the answer to the meaning of life. Being human. And the defect is thinking that there's some verbatim way to be so. Those people who cry that they've come out all wrong- that somewhere in their existence they screwed up; they're crying wasted tears. As long as you've got a brain, a heart, and an imperfect soul, you're human in my book- and you have every right to live."  
  
I contemplate this for a second. His words barely permeate into my skin and maybe bits and pieces into my mind but I haven't built up a sense of my own understanding for four years for nothing. "If what you're saying is true, then you're also saying that it's permissible to be 'human'- that it's okay to fuck up the world and not have to take any other responsibility for it than to shrug and say: 'So what? I'm human'."  
  
"You're one to assume yourself," he responds. "I never said, nor implied, any of that. It isn't okay to blame one's human nature on being human. Being human comes with a responsibility of knowing that as much as you screw up, it's also your duty to set things right again."  
  
"But humans screw up all the time!" I protest. "And few of them seem to recognize this 'responsibility'."  
  
"Yes..." he nods, grinning wickedly. "That's certainly a travesty, isn't it? The human responsibility of fixing problems when they've gone amiss is quite a task. Their mistakes are right in front of them and there's this brick wall called pride that keeps them from turning it into success. A mistake is not a failure unless it is kept so."  
  
"Exactly," I respond, surprised that this man and I can meet at this level. "So, I keep them from ever making a mistake at all. I save them from the trouble of making things right again. I fix a simple, small problem- human nature- before people have a chance to fuck it up beyond repair."  
  
"It seems to me..." he says softly, "That you're fixing the wrong problem."  
  
(TBC) 


End file.
